


Follow me down the rabbit hole

by shibemythri



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feels, Gen, Multi, Possible Character Death, Post-Canon, Sad, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 23:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibemythri/pseuds/shibemythri
Summary: Wanting to give Miraak a second chance, Akatosh sends the Dragonborn back in time to help prevent Miraak from making a deal with Hermaeus.





	Follow me down the rabbit hole

The cellar’s altar was sparsely lit and cold, three dying candles stood flickering around herself and the statue of the dragon god Akatosh, it had been three years since she ended the life of Alduin the world eater and only a year since she had ended the life of the first Dragonborn, Miraak. The weight of their deaths pulled at her heartstrings as she sat on her knees before the purple tinted creation. A soft otherworldly glow told her that those damned enchantments of hers were working as she whispered her desperate prayer like confessional to the empty air. Her hopes growing smaller and smaller by the night.

Long braided hair reached the earth in waves as she refused to even dare raise her nose from the ground. At least not yet, not when her soul was so heavy. Maybe after her blood would begin to boil and her temper would rise. Then she'd turn her eyes to the gods with anger. Until then she was respectful, alone. Depressed, another voice would have told her. A darkness clung to her soul as she tried to pay her respect to those she vanquished. Their things surrounding her shrine like ill-begotten trophies. A cracked scale from the explosion that was Alduin, the tempered expressionless mask of Miraak, Mercer Frey's broken sword, and the blade of her first kill as a warrior. Each came from a well-won battle, each held her blood as well as her enemies, but all remained in her possession. To wither with her. To fade when she faded. A terrible thought, if there ever was one. But so needed in her time of reflection and mourning. They kept her whole.

“Father of time, father of Alduin. Creator of Miraak, Creator of myself... Please listen to my prayers. I have prayed to you for what feels to be weeks now. I have lifted my blade and bow in your name. I have fulfilled my destiny as the last Dragonborn in your name as you willed it. I have battled countless times in your name. Yet, now my soul and mind grow weary with each new task you place before me. My brothers have fallen dead upon my blade and I am quickly becoming lost in this guilt. Please show me a way that I can resolve this or give me a sign that tells me how I can ever forgive myself for these atrocities that I have committed in order to achieve this state of life. Please almighty Akatosh, I am lost.” Bloodshot eyes stared up at the statue from beneath dripping lashes. A new flame lit as she glared ahead of herself, at the nothingness that was her cellar alter. Statues meant to represent the gods stared back at her. Never answering. Never caring. So unlike the Daedra. So unlike those she killed. But they were real and they did _nothing._

"And yet _**you**_ caused this. Why? What had I ever done to you? Was my loyalty not enough? My father's? Miraak? Were any of your children enough? Or were we just your pawns to play with as you saw fit? Answer me! Please… why won’t you answer me? I gave up my life for you." A million accusations passed from her mouth to the silent shrine as she reached a war-torn hand up to attempt to smear away the guilt and tears. But it never stopped. All of this never ended. Every time she tried, it did nothing but further her suffering. Before she was the Dragonborn she had a Life. A good one. filled with happiness and joy. A milk drinker of a twin brother, loving friends, and a family that supported her. Before she had run off for adventure in Skyrim, she had been different. Moral and soft tempered. Then the Imperials came.

She got caught on the border while paying her respects at a small shrine of Talos. A few Stormcloaks were there. But they gave her no mind, they had no need to. Then, as if the very gods themselves just desired to fuck with her, the shrine was attacked. Imperials charged forward from all sides and dragged the group every which way. Screams had erupted, men and women ran for their blades only to be stabbed from behind, one man opened his mouth only to be gagged. It didn’t take the very long to capture her. A young girl barely past her nineteenth winter struck dumb by everything that happened to her, all they needed to do was to knock her out and she was theirs. When she was unconscious they had stripped her of all she loved, pack, gold, amulet of Kyne. Then they put her on a cart and sentenced to death with Ulfric fucking Stormcloak of all people.

Then as her head lay on the chopping block quite literally, she was saved by a dragon as dark as night and as large as the moon. **_Alduin, the world eater_ **. That damned wormed-tongued world eater saved her life that day. Then she’d end his soon after. Destined to be his bane.

The Irony of it all was not lost on her.

After all of this, she had no time for her home life. Of her family. Surely they didn’t worry for they never sent a letter, but surely she didn’t either. Soon after she was forced to run about Skyrim like an idiot trying to save everything. Told that she was to save the world while mourning the death of her father, then her brother- yet she did it. She vanquished Alduin in Sovngarde with three champions of old, but not the champions that she would have wanted. The ones she knew from a life she’d never have.

She'd never been able to see them again after coming to Skyrim. Her father, Olfand had been taken by Hircine the eve she was nabbed by the Imperials, forever lost to the hunt. Her brother, Agarmir was thrown into the Soul Cairn by a necromancer, when she ended Alduin’s life. Both were lost to her now, never to be seen again. But both had been her past, both knew her for what she once was. When she had been just a happy little girl with a childish, Bandit inspired fantasy. That involved sword fights, the magical banter between friends, adventure, romance, and by the nine who knows what else. What would her younger self-think of her now? This pathetic excuse of a Nord, weeping over those she killed. She wondered what in the world she had thought of all those years ago. That life was but a dream that could be brought to fruition.

What idiotic Orc or blubbering Bandit thought it necessary to fill her mind with such things was beyond her, why she had listened to it in the first place was another. But, one day, she would have their heads on a long pike, or maybe she'd dance on their graves. It really mattered on if they were alive or not when she finally decided to return to her home in the frozen city of Bruma. For all, she knew they could live on forever never bothered by her return, or dead a decade ago with nothing but skulls and soot to show for it.

If she ever returned that is.

There was always this insane possibility that she would end up dying on her way there or even leaving her home. The serpent’s path had always been difficult and that wasn't even mentioning the travel to get there. From going all the way from her home in Dawnstar, through Helgen, then past the Pale Gate, all the way back to Bruma without dying. Nary a single person could manage that walk without caravan or blade. But did one whose very voice commanded the heavens have a chance?

That was an entirely different issue. A near impossible issue. Bandits, Giant spiders Trolls, Idiotic Highwaymen, Rogue Mages, Dragons, Spriggans, Bears, Sabercats, Khajiit caravans, idiotic thieves, wolves, more bears, Hagravens, and even more Dragons that refused to listen to her Thu’um lay in wait. Let alone the things she was supposed to be battling on her day to day that refused her. Common folk believed her to be this unflinching immortal warrior yet she still felt fear.

She was the Dragonborn damn it and still feared common house spiders. By the nine, the frostbite spiders. Those things were insanity in and of itself. They never gave up and they never seemed to end, and the webs. Gods the webs. It's like she could never get away from them, In her hair, robes, armor, and boots. It was a nightmare even Vaermina wouldn't enjoy. All of these factors made traveling Tamriel an endless chore. Besides she was much too busy cursing deities and searching for a way out of being a champion to every Daedra she met in the past five years, what good would it do her to run after real dangers? And with that, those thoughts brought her back to the afterlife and what she would lose with any that the Daedra had to offer.

She wanted her afterlife to be in Sovngarde, with her shield sisters and brothers. To drink an ungodly amount of mead and sing atrociously with her fellow kinsmen. To eat her kills with a dopey grin on her face. Maybe even tell tales of valor with Tsun outside the hall, if she was lucky. Yet, her actions had made that possibility unlikely. If she could not have that, then she wished to stay in the shadows with her fellow thieves, watching from the shadows. Protecting the Twilight Sepulcher with Karliah and Brynjolf. By the nine she would even take the void with Sithis. Lost forever with the night mother and those who came before her. Would the jester follow her there? By the nine she hoped not. She already felt like the little man might kill her in her sleep, let alone desiring an eternity at his side. Or would Sithis grant the madman his sanity back like he was in the beginning of his journals? Gods she hoped so. If then and only then, would she accept that as an acceptable afterlife.

Just not this one. She didn't want to spend an eternity in a stuffy Library with a mass of eyes and tentacles watching her every move. Always near death but never quite there, always waiting to be destroyed by a new champion. Always hoping to be able to pass on but never doing so. Knowledge would always remain at her fingertips until she herself turned into a simple shell of her old self, driven by madness. A husk. If old Herma-mora allowed her.

That was no life for a Nord to live, especially not a Nord that became the Dragonborn. A life that a certain God gave her for his **_own_ ** failure in stopping his **_own_ ** son. A life she truly did not want but accepted only if it meant to keep this world as a single whole.

The memory of Apocrypha caused the young woman to think back to her reasons for going there in the first place. Miraak, more Atmoran than she could ever hope to be, but still a Nord. Still the first Dragonborn. Still warm when she held his bones close to her chest. As she cried over his death. He had been like her once. Living, trapped in their fates to battle for a Daedra’s approval. The man she wept and prayed for had been just like her. Driven by Akatosh with the ability to consume dragon’s souls and a desire. He could have even ended the need for Dovahkiin if he had just ended Alduin, yet hubris took him. That desire tainted him until he was forced into that damned stuffy library with monsters. Bidding his time to escape. Bidding his time for her to arrive on the scene and fight him.

Had he known that he might die during their fight? Or had his pride denied him that thought? What would he have done with his life if he was free? Would he have taken over all of Tamriel? Should she have allowed him to end her then and there? Should she have tried to have him join her? Change him somehow?

By the nine!

She needed to stop thinking about this, she needed to look to the future, not the end. She needed… needed…to sleep. This was not healthy for a woman her age. It was getting late and she couldn't run her body entirely on stamina potions and wait around for something to happen.

Well, in actuality she could, but the exhaustion and pain that would come with it might bring her to an early grave. Eventually, she'd need to sleep. Staying in the past and cursing Akatosh would get her nowhere. But sleep may give her momentary release, Vaermina willing.

Soon, the ladder to the rest of Heljarchen Hall beckoned her forward. The savory smell of stew filled her body with some semblance of joy, and the odd thrumming of Oriella's lute drawled her into a tired calm as she pulled her body from the cold stone. Her joints popped loudly in protest. Her muscles strained from misuse as she clung to the nearby wall just so she could stand up straight. Her legs felt numb and were filled with pins and needles as she half dragged, half hobbled herself up into the house above. Warmth enveloping her cold bones as she heaved herself over the edge.

She didn't even close the cellar door as she limped towards the large dining table. Someone else could get it, or fall and break their necks. The flame beckoned her forward. It all the same as it was when she first arrived. The only two people in the room said nothing as she came in with ungodly loud thuds. Gregor only gave her a curious glance as she dropped her head in front of a bowl of steaming stew once seated. It barely even registered in her brain until he moved her head out of it. Disgusting. Sludge dripped down the side of her face as she limply refilled and dropped her head once more. Missing the bowl by maybe a hair. One of her hands patted the table lamely in an attempt to pull her things towards herself. She failed many a time but still vainly went at it. Not one to give up even if half dead in the head.

"Are you feeling well, my Thane? You've been holed up in that cellar for days. Don’t tell me that it was about those damned skeevers you keep blubbering about." The familiar grunt of Gregor only received a tired noise from his thane. Her eyes barely registering his existence, let alone his questions. So he continued.

“Mighty fine time for a talk my Thane. You’ve kept yourself alone all day. It worries a man. Are you feeling well?” He asked again.

"It's the same as before Gregor. The gods have cursed me with this fate." She bemoaned, not fully answering him.

"That still doesn't answer my question. Are you feeling alright?" And again. Ever-patient with the girl.

“No.” She abandoned the utensils and just started picking out chunks and shoving them into her mouth. Chewing slowly, staring at nothing.

“How so?”

"No. No, I’m the same as I've been. I am just upset, Gregor. I just need to wait until I'm ready."

"Bah, you really only need to go adventuresome, my Thane. The thick of battle will do you good." He clapped her back as she pulled the bowl to her lips. The action suddenly causing the woman to have her meal go down the wrong hole.

Coughs flooded the hall as she suddenly abandoned her bowl and slammed her fist against her chest. It flipped over. Chunks flung out and onto the table, creating a mess that he would surely have to deal with after she vanished once more. Into the cellar most likely but an old man could only hope that his Thane would sleep. She wasn't cursed by the vampire lord anymore.

The loud cacophony of sounds slowly faded once she got everything out of her system. Her eyes were watery, chin covered in drool, and chest a bright red from her efforts. Surely that would bruise. But there was a small spark in her as she dramatically turned towards him.

“You old sod. I could have died!” Her lips tugged upward, revealing sharp canines that glimmered in the faint light.

“But you didn’t.” He smiled back at her.

“Wouldn’t that be the day.” The young lass spoke with a quirk of her lips, though it did nothing to hide the stiffness of her bones and joints. She looked so tired, her skin had slowly lost its life, long gone were the red in her cheeks, the speckles that came with her time in the sun were slowly fading away as well as time went on. The housecarl could not remember the last time he had seen the woman leave the cellar since they had returned home from stopping. It must be nearing a month now.

“Of ‘Course it would, I can hear the tales now, ‘Lady Dragonborn dies not of bandit or Dragon but by her housecarl’s cooking!” The man mused as he watched her lopsided grin grow wider. Her smile barely met her eyes as she shuffles away from the mess on the table into an empty bowl, and placed it on the floor. The click caused the beast she affectionately called ‘Sceo’ to vacate its spot by the fire and trot towards the two. Teeth visible as he ate, no manners in the slightest.

“That would be an interesting death to explain to Tsun and Shor.” The woman mused as the beast rubbed its snout against her side, gruel dribbling from his muzzle. Just like its master.

“Aye, shame I’ll live too long to see it.”

“Bastard.” She cackled while punching him in the shoulder as she finally sat up in her chair and reached for a loaf of bread. By the nine It hurt, his shoulder was in such excruciating pain as he turned from her and took a deep breath. His eyes grew steamy as he tried to curse the pain away. The girl did not know her own strength.

“There’s the girl I know my Thane.” His expression lit up as the woman dragged a bottle of mead towards him.

“Oh, shut up you two husked Horker!” The Dragonborn huffed as she took her first sip, it burned her throat as it passed. But nothing a dragon-tongued beast could not handle. Oriella stood from her chair, walked by the fire, and took the lute off the shelf with a deep sigh and a smile etched onto her face. She strummed the lute with a hum in her throat. Then she began.

‘Our hero, our hero’

‘Claims a warrior’s heart’

‘I tell you, I tell you’

‘The Dragonborn comes’


End file.
